


Say No to This

by Midnigtartist



Series: Tragedy Comes in Threes [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alex is there, Angst, Bottom Jefferson, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, First Time Bottoming, Internalized Homophobia, Kinda, M/M, Smut, Thomas is sad, Thomas thinks he's stright, he's not tho, very little but this is in cannon time period
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-09-02 22:53:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8686516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Midnigtartist/pseuds/Midnigtartist
Summary: When Jefferson receives word of his late wife's passing, he finds himself with nowhere to turn. He'd never have imagined that he would find solace in the one man he despises.





	

**Author's Note:**

> OMG y'all on tumblr have been asking so here it finally is! My Say No to This fic da dada da! Thanks to Exadorlion and Clebimebi for beta reading ^3^

It’s raining.

He can tell by the chill of his skin, how his clothes cling tightly to his body. The rain hammers against him, drenching him to the bone, flattening his hair to his skull and causing waves of goosebumps to roll through him. The feel of it is the only thing he can process. Thomas can’t hear how it batters the road, tuning the ground beneath his feet to mud. It’s white noise in the back of his mind, a low, continuous drone that bets against his ears. 

The world around him is a shifting, shimmering wall of dismal grays as the rain pours around him in sheets, surrounding him as he stumbles through the streets of Massachusetts. He has no destination in mind, he simply wobbles though the downpour on unsteady feet. The only thing that keeps him grounded is the letter he clutches with bruising force in his left hand. A letter from Monticello addressed to him.  He’s read it and re read it so many times over that the words seemed to have engrave themselves on his mind. 

_ Dear Mister Thomas Jefferson  Secretary of State to these United States of America _

_ It is with a heavy hand and even heavier heart that I write to you. It is with my utmost sympathies that I must inform you of the passing of one, Martha Jefferson. Having died this day, the sixth of september in this year. As of this moment arrangement are being made for her funeral and as such it is most imperative that you reply to this letter at the earliest convenience to you so that- _

 

Thomas had received this letter early this afternoon. Today is the twentieth.

His Martha died two weeks ago.

His shoulders quiver as the fact sink in once more, flaying the already weeping wound son his heart anew. He knew that she was sick, she was always so sickly and fragile and she’s told him in her last letter to him how his humble presence would be enough to lift her spirits. He’d been planning a trip down to go visit her just a few hours before he got the message, feeling guilt for not having come home more often. And now she’s gone. His  beautiful, kind hearted Martha. Already long buried by now, cold and serine in her casket. 

Thomas squeezes tighter around the letter in his grip. The rain is turning the parchment into a wet pulp between his fingers, yet he still seeks no shelter from this deluge that has swallowed him whole. He thinks meekly that the very sky seems to be mourning the lose of such a gentle soul like hers. 

Another dry sob wracks his frame, and he buries his face in his free hand. There was more he should have done for her. He should have been a better husband, a better father. He should have returned home to her more, been more like Adams who comes at his wife’s beckon call. But he’d let himself be consumed by his work, let his opposition distract him when he should have been back in virginia with her. His dear Martha. 

Suddenly he stumbles, mud caked shoe clipping on the edge of something hard and very solid. He loses his balance, legs slipping out from under him on the slick ground. Thomas has just enough sense in him to throw up his hands before he hits the cobblestone sidewalk. 

Sharp pain slashes at his palms, a sting that shoots up his arms and makes him wince as his knees  connect with the ground. He lets loose a strangled sound of distress, the letter he’s been holding so tightly shredded in the fall, fragile fibers ripping apart. Bitting down in his lip to stem some of the pain, Jefferson turns over his trembling hands. 

He’s sliced them to ribbons on the jagged edges of the uneven stones. Streaks of violet red cutting into the pink of his palms, blood mixing with water as it trickles from the wounds then drips slowly to the pavement. 

Thomas cracks. He stares down at his blooded, dirtied hands as the blockades around him break, letting loose the full torrent of his grief. He’s not sure how long he kneels in the middle of the sidewalk, it could have been mere seconds or years, all he knows is that it's the faint sound of his name that brings him back. The sound of it under the thundering of the rain. His head whips upward, curls stuck in clumps to his head and his neck.

“Martha?” he mutters dumbly into the night.

It's so dark that it must be night.

A figure is coalescing out of the rain, a distant silhouette that grows large with every passing moment. They say his name again, so faintly that Jefferson can hardly make it out over the sharp sound of water as it hits the ground. But then he blinks, and suddenly the figure is upon him, a hand tentative on his shoulder. 

“Jefferson what that hell are you doing out here?”

Thomas follows the line of the arm that grasps him up to its owner's face. 

Hamilton peers down at him though the rushing water, long hair hanging limply around his ovular face, brows knitted tightly together. Thomas decides that he’d very much like to curl up and die at this moment. To think that Hamilton,  _ Hamilton _ of all people, would be the one to find him in such a sorry state. God must truly hate him. 

Alexander’s hold on his shoulder tightens. “Jefferson, what the hell?”

Thomas makes a pathetic noise in the back of his throat, dropping his gaze back to his bloodied hands , resting limply in his lap.

“Jesus” he hears the immigrant breathe. Then suddenly Jefferson is being hauled to his feet. He finds Alexander’s strength momentarily impressive. Easy to forget that the short man had spent time in the military, what with his reckless attitude and overall insubordination. 

He lets Hamilton drag him to his feet, wrap a hand around his back, and start them at a hurried pace down the street. They don't go far, not even a block before Alexander is directing him up a flight of uneven stairs. When they reach the top step he fumbles to open the rain slick  lock.

“Lets clean you up, alright? Come on Jefferson you big oaf.” he huffs.

Thomas nods, a simple bob of his head and lets Alexander drag him out of the rain and into the warmth of what he can only assume to be his house. He blinks, taking in his surroundings. 

It's a little place, decorated in warm, rich browns and accents of green. Squat furniture fills the rooms that he can see from here, lit by the glow of many waning candles and the crackling fire just one room over.

Beside him, Hamilton is muttering curses under his breath, quickly stripping off his damp outer coat, leaving him in only his waistcoat and breeches. He hangs the sopping green mess on a hook then turns, fixed Jefferson with a glare. 

“If all of this was just an elaborate plan to ruin my hardwood, I can assure you it is easily replaced. Please take your coat off before you catch pneumonia too.” he says firmly, sweeping his soaking hair behind his neck, only to let it drop back into place.

Thomas blinks, mind processing the command a little slower than usual because the cold and his utter mental exhaustion. He raises trembling fingers to peel back the ruined velvet, but apparently Alexander is impaint. With a little, annoyed sigh on his lips, the immigrant steps towards Jefferson and takes hold of his lapels, easing the jacket from his shoulders.

He’s never really taken into account how small the other man is compared to him, the top of his head barely reaches Jefferson’s chin. How such a short man could contain all the ferocity and stubbornness that Hamilton has continues to amaze him. It must be concentrated in his tiny form. Still, the way the light hits his hair, with his head bowed like this is entrancing.

He reaches around Thomas to pull the coat all the way off and Thomas’ breath catches in his throat monetarily, because Hamilton really does have quite lovely eyes when they're not narrowed with frustration or condensation. He peers gingerly up at Jefferson though long lashes, standing far closer then he has any right to be. Thomas can smell his aftershave and the smokiness of the fire on his shirt front, that’s how close he is, can see the way little droplets of water cling to his stringy hair. The muscles in his chest clench inexplicably at the sudden revelation. There’s something magnetic in Hamilton’s gaze, he’d felt it before, the way the Secretary seems to draw a crowd around him whenever he speaks but he’d never really noticed it until now. His stomach rolls.

Then Hamilton is stepping back, turning to hang Jefferson’s coat on the rack beside his own.

He glances at Thomas over his shoulder. “Why don’t you have a seat in the parlor Mister Jefferson, and I’ll grab something to wrap up your hands.”

Jefferson spares quick look down at his hands, blood still oozing slowly from the jagged cuts in his palms. On another occasion he wouldn’t tolerate Hamilton bossing him around, but currently, he feels to faint to refuse. So he nods meekly before traipsing into the next room on wobbling legs, shoes squishing in the puddles he leaves behind on the polished floor.

Thomas drops himself into the first armchair he finds, sinking into the cushions and no doubt ruining fabric with the water running off from his clothes. The fire roaring in the heath is warm on his clammy skin and does well to settle his shaking nerves. Carefully he rest his hands in his lap, casting his gaze around the room to try and distract himself, so that he won’t start getting emotional in Hamilton’s sitting room. Having the man see him is such a pathetic state once is more than enough times thank you very much.

As he expected it might, the decorum of the room reeks of new money. Seems that once the little immigrant had some cash to spare, he went and spent it all on luxurious furnishing of his little home, spoiling his wife with a lifestyle  not far from what she grew up with. The darkly stained furniture is all intricately carved, no doubt custom made to appease Hamilton’s pretentious tastes. The squat legs of the end tables blossom with wooden roses and creeping ivy. The breath of the fireplace is also meticulously designed, with a large mantle crafted with such care. Two tall rows of bookshelves cover the back wall, a rolling ladder locked in its place so those more vertical challenged can reach the novels on the top. Thomas notes the skillful crafted brass accents, the knobs of the doors and the handles of the drawers. But at least Hamilton wasn’t pretentious enough to upholster the furniture in white. The long side across from Thomas and the handful of high back arms chairs, including the one he’s currently ruining, are all clothed in a pleasant shade of green. He muses briefly if the man simple decorated his whole house in his favorite color because he’s that egocentric. But of all these disgusting displays of grandous wealth, no piece is more stunning than the oil painting of Hamilton and his family above the fireplace. With his dressed in his green and his gentle wife holding their young son, barely a toddler at the time this was painting. Thomas has a similar painting in his office. Of him and his Martha, and two of his little girls, when they were still so young and hopeful. What will they do now without their mother.

Before he can brood, sink back into his sorrow, Hamilton steps though the threshold, balancing a basin and bottle of liquor on a small silver tray. He sets it down on the end table beside Thomas’ chair.

“You’ll have to forgive me for not offering you something to drink” he says “I’m afraid I sent all my servants home for the summer. Not much need for a full staff when it’s just me in the house.”

With a grunt, he drops his knees in front of Jefferson, not as young a man as he used to be, apparently.

“Where are your wife and children?” Thomas ask.

“Upstate with my father in law for the summer. I couldn’t find the time to tear myself away from my work, not with how hard you’ve been fighting my plan.” Hamilton then gingerly takes Jefferson’s right hand in his own. “Let’s clean these up before they get infected, yeah?”

Thomas shifts his gaze away from Alexander, writes off the tingling of his skin where he touches him as the by product of warm fingers on his frigid flesh. 

“We fight so much, it seems neither of us could be where we ought to be currently.” he mutters bitterly

He sees Hamilton glance up at him from the corner of his eye. “What do you mean?”

Jefferson sighs “You should be on leave with your family, and  I-” He swallows down the painful lump in his throat. “I should have been in Virginia- burying my wife.”

The fingers around his wrist tighten and his pulse flutters benight them. 

“Your wife she-” Alexander starts, but can’t seem to get the  words out. Tragedy, it would appear, keeps his tongue at bay.

Thomas nods slowly. “Two weeks now. I just received the letter this morning.”

“I’m so sorry, Jefferson. To lose a loved one is such a hard burden for a soul to bare.” Hamilton says softly.

Jefferson can feel heat well up behind his eyes once more, the dull salty ache of his broken heart. “Thank you for your condolences.” He chokes out somehow.

There’s a long stretch of silence between them where neither man moves. Thomas bites down on his lower lips anxiously, staring hard into the fire as he tries to push away thoughts of his Martha’s death. He won’t dwell on them now,  not with Hamilton here, with his fingers locked around his wrist, probing him with his bright, curious eyes. He’ll humor Alexander, let him patch him up then leave. And only when he gets home, to his empty, stagnant apartment, will he let the full gravity of the day hit him. He refuses to cry in front of Hamilton again. 

Alexander breaks the viscous silence briefly, muttering “Let’s clean you up” under his breath. 

Once again Thomas nods in silent affirmation. He’s not going to question why Alexander is taking pity on him, that would be too humanizing and ascribing traits like compassionate to him might make it harder for Jefferson to fight him in the cabinet.

So Hamilton takes the small wash cloth he brought with him, dips in the basin of water, and starts to clean Jefferson’s palms, whipping away the blood and the dirt. It stings a little, the hot water on his open wounds and the coarse fabric of the cloth on his irritated skin, but Thomas can handle some physical discomfort. When finished with the right hand Alexander move on the left, repeating the process of gently scrubbing the gravel from his palms, and once he finishes, he set the now pinkish rag back on the tray and picks up whatever amber liquor he brought with him. He glances up at Jefferson wearily as he uncorks the bottle.

“This is going to hurt like a son of bitch” He warns, before overturning the bottle onto Jefferson’s hands.

The burn is unbearable. It forces out the tears lingering at the edges of Thomas’ eyes as the sharp smelling booze seeping into his cuts. He tenses at the pain, like he’d just slammed his hands on a bunch of needles, and gasps.

“Fuck” he hisses, trying desperately to tug his hands from Hamilton’s, but his grip is too strong. The smaller man keeps pouring. 

“Sorry” he mutters. “Sorry. But you don’t want this infected, trust me. Just a little longer, I promise.”

Tears leak from the corners of Jefferson’s eyes, the sting of the alcohol becoming a steady throb now. “I hate you.” he snaps

And Alexander laughs, just a soft sound, but laughter no the less. His deep brown eyes twinkle with mirth. “When I fight you, you hate me and when I help you, you hate me. There’s no way I can win, is there Jefferson?” at this point he turns the bottle right side up again and corks it. 

Thomas doesn’t answer, but glares hard at the immigrant, trying to understand why his laugh is suddenly such a pleasant sound. Maybe because this time, it’s not laced with arrogance. 

Hamilton then grabs a roll of bandages off of his tray and sets to work wrapping up Jefferson’s hands. He binds them quickly and securely, obviously he’s done this before. 

“I would ofter you some dry clothes,” Alexander says after a moment, head still bowed over his hands. “But I fear I have nothing that would fit you, sir, seeing as you’re so disgustingly tall.”

Thomas can hear the the little smirk in his tone, so he puffs up his chest indignantly. “My height wouldn’t be the reason that I would be uncomfortable in your breeches, Hamilton” 

Alexander glances up, one brow cocked questioningly, and teasing grin on his face. “I see that it’s true what they say then. The temperature isn’t the only thing Mister Jefferson measures when he wakes up in the morning. Tell me sir, have you finally reached a sufficient knock on the ruler?”

Jefferson’ eyes narrow dangerously. “I am more than sufficient, I’ll have you know, you little creeten. Far more so than I’m sure you are.”

“Is that a challenge, Jefferson?” Alexander asks, tying off the bandages. “Because I’d be more then happy to show you just how _sufficient_ I am, but only if you promised to drop trou as well.”

A brilliant blush flares across Thomas’ cheeks. It’s because of that vulgar comment, he tries to convince himself. It’s the utter blunt, tactless sentence, and not the sudden thought of Hamilton bare before him. Most certainly not that. That would be wrong and disgusting. No, he has no desire to follow that path of his sallow skin down past the collar of his cravat. 

Alexander gives his bandages one final tug, checking that they’re secure, before he turns his eyes up to Thomas. He still smiling slightly, thin lips hitched up in a lopsided smirk, but when his gaze locks with Jefferson, it starts to melt a little. His dark eyes go a little wider and he just sort of- stares at him. 

Once again Thomas can feel the pull of Hamilton strange gravity on him, pulling him into the depths of those lovely brown eyes. His stomach flips, because never should he think of another man as lovely. What’s wrong with him? He tries to reason the slip away as the result of his fatigue. He’s just exhausted and cold, and it’s making him confused, clearly. But then why does he feel like a magnet is pulling him closer to Alexander with every passing second they stare at eachother like this, with his heart hammering in his chest. Why is he helpless to it?

“Jefferson?” Hamilton asks, his voice soft, like he can feel the tightly drawn strings between them too. “Are you alright?”

Is it just his imagination, or is Alexander leaning closer now?

His dark eyes dart over Jefferson’s face, breaking the fragile connection, but not stopping the warmth swelling in his chest. 

Then he choughs. “Maybe I should get you something to drink.”

He makes to stand, but Jefferson’s hand leaps out, fingers tangling in his shirt front. Alexander’s eyes go wide.

Thomas can’t explain what compelled him to do it, maybe it really is his fatigue, or his heart break, or the pulse of pain still running though his hands. Maybe it’s just the the fact that he can’t bear the thought of being left alone again, but he doesn’t want Hamilton to leave. The man he’s despised so thoroughly, for so long, has been the only point of light in his dark moments of this evening. A lighthouse that helped guide him back to shore. He helped him to forget his pain for just a little. If he were to go-

“Stay” Thomas breaths

Slowly Alexander sinks back down to the floor. “Stay?”

He nods, swallowing the pit forming his his throat, obstructing his airway. “Stay, please”

 

Hamilton is beautiful.

The sudden realization strikes Thomas in the center of his chest, leaving him breathless. Backlit by the fire crackling in the hearth, the shadows accent the curves of his face. The light catches the tiny drops of water still clinging to his hair, the flyaways seem to glow a burnt honey color against the background and it’s truly an incredible sight. Alexander, with eyes bright and wondering, lips parted ever so slightly. Lips...

His eyes zero in on them. Pink and chapped looking, and still curiously enticing. 

So Jefferson kisses him.

He presses his mouth clumsily over Hamilton’s and tightens his fist in his shirtfront. And it's like nothing he’s ever felt before. So much the same and yet at the same time, completely different. Wonderful. Like he was waiting his whole life for this moment and still it’s a surprise. He pushes harder against Alexander’s lips. The unexpected scrape of stubble on his own makes him jump back, the feel of it like a current through his chest, causing his heart to spasm. Goosebumps rise over his skin, not because it was unpleasant or repulsive, but because it makes his pulse race with desire. That startles him.

He leans back, eyes wide and trained on Hamilton.

“I’m sorry” Jefferson whispers harshly,hand falling from Hamilton’s front. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over m-”

Next thing he knows, Alexander is upon him, kissing him with frightening vigor. The man half stands, mouth working viciously against him as he crawls into Thomas’ lap, pressing back into the chair. Thomas gasped, suddenly too hot, suddenly too restricted, and that's when Alexander shoves his tongue past his lips, running it across the roof of his mouth. He shudders violently under the immigrant, gripping the arms of the chair to steady himself. They break apart, if only so Alexander can breath hotly into Jefferson’s mouth, before diving back in to suck at his lower lip. Hands clutch at him, run over his chest so fast he hardly has time to process them. The smell of Hamilton is everywhere, he can barely breath.  Another bruising kiss with Alexander licking sloppy into his mouth, before his teasing lips start tracing across his jawline.

Thomas moans as an embarrassing wave of heat washed through him, causing his hips to cant up and his head to fall back with his eyes screwed tightly shut. He can feel Hamilton on him. Chests pressed tightly together, his hands on his neck, in his hair, can feel the warmth of his thighs on either side of his hips, and he buck up once more. He needs something, needs it so bad that he feels like he’s dying.

“Please” he rasps. His breath stutters as Alexander’s stubble drags down his neck, burning him like the sparks of a fire. “Please”

He can’t put a name to it, what he need more then he needs air, but somehow he knows that Hamilton can give it to him. So he’ll beg, just this once, just to scratches that unnameable itch he feels. It’s almost a familiar feeling, but not quite, not when it’s Alexander’s lips on him, chapped and accompanied by the scrap of his beard, rather than the gentle press of a woman’s full mouth on him. 

Hamilton presses into him, rolling  his hips down into Thomas’ and Thomas  moans once more, at the heat between his legs, at the throb Hamilton’s swelling dick gives at the friction. It send another shot of white hot arousal through  him. It dampens any thoughts of propriety. 

“I’m going to take care of you” the secretary mutters in his ear. Alexander steals one more kiss from him, before slowly sliding off his lap, letting his hands drag over the tops of his thighs as he goes. Thomas quivers. “Come on.”

He intertwined their fingers and heaves Jefferson from the chair, dragging him along as he hurries from the room. He only pauses briefly to snatch a candle from a nearby table, in order to light the stairs up to the second level. 

A mess of emotions rattle though Jefferson as he allows Alexander to guild him up the staircase, making his hands shake and his stomach twist.

Excitement. Burning anticipation for more. More of what Hamilton can do to him, with his tongue and his hands. His heart hammers in his chest, pumping all his blood south of his waistline. The scratch of his stockings on his sensitive inner thighs makes him groan. He needs this so badly.

Trepidation. His insides flutter with uncertainty. Though he still can’t put a name to what exactly it is he’s craving, he can follow the lines of logic to their ultimate conclusion. The heat in his veins, the look in Alexander’s eyes, his soft words and rough hands, the fact that he’s most certainly being led to Hamilton’s bedroom, only end in one way. It’s the how that makes his stomach twist anxiously. How Hamilton plans to get them where they will no doubt end up. 

Sick. He shouldn’t want this so bad. The heat of Alexander’s mouth on him shouldn’t excite him like this. It’s abnormal, a betrayal. But his lust addled mind can't cling too firmly to that thought right now. Not when the knob of Hamilton’s door is practically deafening in the empty house.

Alexander pushes him inside, snapping the door shut behind them. The sound of it hitting the door frame makes Thomas’ heart jump in his chest. The shorter man sets his candle on top of a nearby dresser, before turning back to face him, eyes glittering teasingly with the flame of the wick in his pupils, with the swaying shadows on his face. Thomas can feel his breeches grow tighter. He crosses to Thomas in a few short strides, straining up to re capture his lips as soon as he’s close enough to reach them. One hand curls around the back of Jefferson’s neck, dragging his down to Alexander’s level, another cards though his curls, angling his neck the way he needs it. Hamilton’s mouth parts and Jefferson’s follows, giving the smaller man the chance to stroke across his tongue. His knees feel weak as he sags onto them.

Then Hamilton takes a step back, severing the thin thread of saliva that connected them for a brief moment. Thomas feels it drop cooly onto his chin. He watches Alexander’s eyes trail along his body, over his heaving chest and flushed face, that grows an even darker shade of red as he lingers on his crotch. The little immigrant reaches up, tracing his fingers from Jefferson’s jaw, down the lines of his neck and Jefferson whimpers, preening into the touch. Hands start to pull apart his cravat. All of Alexander’s movements are slow and precise, leaving Thomas straight backed and trembling with need. He unknots his and slides it off of Jefferson’s neck, no doubt deliberately letting it glide over his skin. Then Hamilton moves onto his waistcoat, thumbing out the buttons. He presses each one into Jefferson’s chest as he goes, and each time he’s left breathless.

Thomas so badly wants the teasing to be over. He’s hardly been touched and yet he feels like his boiling in his own skin, sweat already trickling from his hairline and harder than he thinks he should be. But Hamilton’s teasing pace is relentless, measures and purposefully slow. All Thomas can do is tip his head back and moan weakly as he’s striped of all outwear. Half freezing, half burning in his thin, white dress shirt. 

Alexander grips the billlowing fabric and starts dragging over Jefferson’s head. He meets no resistance, Thomas is more than eager to stretch his arms about his head and toss the shirt to the wayside. This time it’s Alexander that moans. Pressing his palms flat to Jefferson’s chest he drags them down across his toned stomach. His muscles convulsed under the feel of the calloused skin.

“Fuck” Hamilton raspes, groping over his chest now, staring hard at him with his mouth hanging open. “Oh fuck”

Jefferson shudders at his utterly strung out tone, the sound reverberating down his spine.

The tips of Hamilton’s fingers trace down his stomach again, gliding over the ridges of his abs until the fabric of his breeches stop him. Thomas whimpers as they hop the hem and press directly to his cock. Alexander pops the button, then proceeds to unlace them. Jefferson’s hands curl into fists at his sides as he’s undress, nails biting half moons into his palms.

“I’m I your first?” Alexander mutters across his neck, lips pressing gently to his racing pulse.

Jefferson doesn’t know how to answer. Certainly this isn’t his first time ever, the Virginian has had his fair share of romantic encounters but-

“My first- like this” he responds thickly. 

Fingers on his chin direct his gaze down, prompt him to open his eyes. Alexander is smiling warmly at him, cupping his face with both hands. 

He strokes his thumb over Jefferson’ s cheek. “I’m honored, then”

He kisses him once more. Sweetly, tenderly moving his mouth to the rythm of music only he can hear. The kiss steals the breath from Thomas’ chest. 

Then they part, and Alexander's hands are back at the laces of his pants, undoing them with renewed vigour. When he pulls the last lace from its loop his breeches drop to the floor with a soft whoosh of fluttering fabric, and Jefferson is left in only his thin stockings and undergarments. Hamilton digs his fingers under the elastic band of the white tights, pulls it back, then lets it snap back into place. The sharp sting on his already sensitive skin makes him jump, the muscles below his navel convulsing. He swallows down a moan. Again Hamilton hooks his fingers under the hem of his stockings, but this time is starts to remove them, dropping to his knees as he drags the tight fabric from his quivering legs. Next come his underthings, Hamilton makes quick work of those, like he himself is getting impatient with the game, and soon Thomas is standing completely bare before the treasury secretary. He watches as Alexander eyes over his length from his knees. Stares on with lips parted as the little immigrant shuffles forward and presses his nose into the crease of his thigh. His hot breath fans over his flushes cock, he can feel the trembling moan Hamilton gives shoot up right into his core.

“You’re big” He mutters, nosing around Jefferson dick like a mutt.

Subconsciously Thomas winds a hand into his hair. It’s silky to the touch, inky black in the lowlight that the sole candle provides.

Alexander turns his big, doey eyes up towards him, a soft grin on his face. 

“Can I show you something?” He asked breathlessly. “I promise you’ll like it.”

“Please” Thomas whines, tightening his fist in Alexander’s hair to keep him close. He’s so desperate for anything right now, some sort of stimulation. 

Hamilton’ soft grin turn impish. He places a single, lingering kiss to Jefferson’s inner thigh, then turns and wraps his lips around his length. 

Thomas chokes on his moan as it tries to tear out of the back of his throat, catching on his tongue on its way out and nearly strangling him. Instantly his hip snap forward into the heat of Hamilton's wet mouths. His other hand comes up to take fistfuls of the smaller man’s wonderful hair as he bucks past his parted lips, fucking himself into his mouth. He feels Alexander’s hands scrambled for purchase. They squeeze at the back of his thighs, fingers biting into his flesh and drawing another ruined moan from his chest. He pushes himself in as much as he can, as much as Alexander will let him and groans long and low. Letting the sound settle in the thick air with Hamilton’s own wet whimpers and gasps. 

This, he thinks numbly, this is how he’s going to get there. With Hamilton’s lips wrapped around him, his tongue tracing the underside of his cock. All the heat in his veins starts to coalesce in his lower belly, expanding and pressing against his spine. He moans loudly, thighs quivering, so close.

Then Alexander is pulling off of him with an obscene, wet pop that makes Thomas groan and thrust after his retreating mouth.

“Fuck Alexander” he hisses. “Please, please  _ please. _ ”

Hamilton hushed him gently, running his nose slowly along his inner thigh. “Shhhhhh. I know. I told you I would take care of you.” a kiss to hipbone. “Go sit on the bed Thomas.”

And Thomas whimpers, because the way his name falls from Hamilton’s mouth is unholy. He drops his hands from Alexander’s hair and shuffles back until the back of his knees hit the soft duvet and he drops onto it, watching the other man’s movements with rapt attention. He watches as Hamilton staggers to his feet, as he starts to pop the buttons on his waistcoat, letting the shimmering green fabric fall in a heap on the floor. The he sheds his shirt, stretching out languidly so Jefferson can admire the lines of his body. How he’s thin in some places, like where is ribs jut out sharply from his skin and the hard edges of his hipbones. There are parts of him that are more round too, like the gentle slope of his stomach or the curves of his waist. He never breaks eye contact with Thomas, not even as he drops his hands to the laces of his trousers and starts to hastily undo them. 

“You can touch yourself if you want.” Hamilton says gentle, stepping out of his breeches. “You look tense as hell.”

Thomas blinks. He wasn't aware he was straggling the bedsheets until Alexander mentioned it. Didn’t notice how stifle he was sitting. He shakes his head with vigor, curls sticking to his damp skin. 

“I- wouldn’t know where to begin.” he responds thickly.

Alexander pauses in his removably of his stockings, giving Jefferson questioning, if not amused look. “Don’t they teach you anything useful do there in Virginia?”

Thomas flushes all along his neck and chest, white hot with embarrassment at being one upped by Hamilton. He doesn’t dwell on it long however, because now Hamilton is stepping out of his undergradments and everything else is white noise. 

He certainly is sufficient. Flushed cock standing at attention amongst a clump of dark brown curls. All the lines of his body leading to it, flowing into it. Jefferson’s whole body pluses with that strange need. 

“Here” Hamilton says tenderly, coming to stand right between his legs. Thomas can do little more then drink him in, vision gorging itself on the immigrant's nude form. “Let me show you.”

Gently he takes Jefferson’s hand in his own, smaller one, and wraps his long fingers around his cock. Thomas moans softly, squeezing himself. It’s not as good as Alexander’s mouth, but it helps take the edge off. He pumps his fist around himself, letting lose little breathy sounds. He hears Hamilton chuckle, and crakes a bleary eye he didn’t realize he’d closed. Alexander is watching him affectionately. He strokes his fingers though Jefferson’s hair. 

“Don’t pull it off alright?”

Jefferson huffs. “Don’t patronize me, asshole.”

Hamilton laughs again. “Trust me you’re not going to wanna miss what’s next.”

Thomas groans, toes curling up. What more could there possible be? What could be better than Alexander skilled lips around him?

Alexander bends, reaching into the bottom draw of his night stand, and putting his ass on rather provocative display for Thomas, who whimpers and sqeezes again.

He doesn’t see what Hamilton’s pulled from drawer because when he stands, he immediately turns and pushes him back against the mattress. He swats his hand away from his dick, and Thomas can;t help the indigent sound he makes at the lose of friction. He trusts up helplessly at the air, skin crawling with need. He’s never felt this desperate before.

Alexander pets over his chest gently with a one hand. “Promise this’ll be worth the wait” he whispers. 

Then Thomas feels something cool and slick probing his ass. He tenses instinctively, flinching away from the foreign feeling. They’re fingers, he notes, Hamilton’s fingers. 

“Relax Thomas.” Alexander coos.

He leans over Jefferson  and captures his mouth in a kiss. Jefferson moans into it, settling against the sheets. Relaxing just enough for Hamilton to slip a single digit in him. It stings but Hamilton’s lips distract him from the discomfort, even when another finger is added after a few shallow thrust. They’re both slicked up with some sort of oil to help them glide better. Smart, he thinks.  obviously Hamilton has done this before, the way he’s twisting his fingers tell Thomas that it's not his first time doing something like this. But he doesn’t want to think about that right now. 

Eventually his trust start to grow rough, pierce him deeper, even adding a third finger, and Jefferson is growing pathetically desperate. 

The throws his head back against the bedsheets and whines. “Please Alexander please.”

He’s not sure what he’s begging for exactly. Relief, probably, release, something to stop his skin from melting from his bones. He wishes Alexander would just put his mouth back on him and let him finish, but it seems he has other, bigger plans for Thomas.

Hamilton slides his fingers out of him and before Thomas can utter a sound of complaint, he’s pressing the dripping tip of his cock to his entrance. He barely has time to processes it before Alexander is pushing into him.

It burns, it feels like he’s being ripped in two. He practically screams, head presses back into the bed, spine arching, fingers scrabbling for a hold on Alexander’s thighs. Above him, Hamilton groans, a deep guttural sound that rumbles in his chest. 

“Yes” He moans, drawing out the ‘ssss’ as his hips thrust up into Thomas.

It stings, but not as badly after a moment of just breathing, he can start to feel rolling waves of pleasure. He purrs, hips twitching up, trying to take more of Alexander in, and Alexander takes that as his cue.

He bows over Jefferson and starts slamming into him. He lays kisses over his neck, his cheeks, he peeks at Jefferson’s lips, nips at them until the sting, brushes his lips gently over his fluttering eyelids. And between every touch, on the end of every breath Alexander gives little. “Yes” of satisfaction.

Thomas moans wantonly beneath him, clutching at Alexander’s supple thighs for some sort of grounding as his pace increases.

“Yes- _ yes-yes” _

The little word punctuates every thrust. Thomas can barely get enough air into his lungs.

“Yes-  _ yes” _

Hamilton is pounding him into the mattress. The wooden bed frame creaks. 

“Yes-”

Alexander’s tones grows gruffer, the sounds start to slur together. He takes Jefferson’s dick in his hand and starts pumping it in time with the slam of his hips.

_ “Yes-yes-yes-yes yesyes yes yesyes-” _

Thomas comes with something akin to a weeping moan torn from his throat, cover his stomach and Alexander’s hand with his release. Everything flashes white for a moment, then he's struggling for breath, Hamilton still rocking into him. Just when the feel of it starts to become unpleasant, the other man’s hips stutter to a halt. He groans, balls deep in Jefferson, arms trembling on either side of his head. Then he sighs, and slides himself out gingerly. Thomas can feel Hamilton’s release dripping out of him, warm and sticky on his skin, it makes him shivers.

Alexander collapses beside him, sleepy grin painted on his face. He kisses Thomas once on his chest, then buries his face in his neck, breathing eventually evening out. 

Thomas starts up at the ceiling, the euphoria drawing from him and leaving him cold. There’s a dull ache between his legs, most likely from having them stretched open so long. But more painful then that is the single thought left rattling around in his brain.

 

What has he done?

 

Thomas passes out afterward, back bowed by the weight of the day. He’s drained mentally, emotionally wrecked and physically exhausted by what they’d done. The sleep doesn’t last long however, he gets maybe two or three hours at best, dark eyes fluttering open while the sky is still dark enough to hide his shame. 

He doesn’t feel all that different. His body hums with the same kind of blissfulness that usually seeps into his veins when he reaches that level of physical satisfaction. His body warm and heavy under bed sheets, unwilling to move, and there’s contentment in each beat of his heart. Usually that would ease him. It doesn't now, though. The gentle hammering of his pulse feels off, hits on the offbeat of its six eight time, changing the pace. Thomas lays on his back with his head pressed into the pillows, hair poofing around him in clumps of crushed curls. When he shifts he feels the pull of the sticky skin of his inner thighs, a dull ache between his legs that courses up through the center of his body after being handled like that. Oscillating waves of lust and shame wash over him, drowning him in heat. 

His bedmate, plastered to his side, feels different too. There’s no cushion of soft breast against his chest, no long lovely black hair tumbling across the sheets, no delicate curves under his palms. It’s not his Martha, because she’s gone, two weeks gone. It will never be his Martha again. 

Everything within his aches. His heart spasms in his chest as he stares blankly up at the ceiling. The breath hiccups in his chest, coalescing in a sharp sob that passes his lips. Tears well up in his eyes, burning with their heat and their salt until their surface tension breaks and they spill, one after the other, down the sides of his face. He chokes again, tears seeping into his hair, trickling down unpleasantly into his ears, yet he makes to move to brush them away. He’s too exhausted. So he stares up at the strake white ceiling of his room and allows himself this weakness. 

Weak and pitiable. 

He sobs harder, muffling the sounds behind his lips. 

When the sun wakes, it spies Thomas though the sliver of his curtains, gazing blankly upward, salty tracks drying to his skin. 

He’s not sure how he feels, he’s not sure that he’s feeling at all. Maybe his heart was left somewhere out in the storm last nights, or the iciness of the rain froze in solid. He’d be inclined to believe that so, if he couldn't’ feel his pulse behind his teeth. The inevitable result of crying so violently, and for so long. He sighs, scrubing a hand over his face to try and rub away the lingering tears. His movement causes his bed mate to shift, burrowing deeper into the cradle of his shoulders. 

Hamilton looks so much smaller now. Last night he had seemed swell, with his soft words and careful, skilled fingers, coxing Jefferson though the whole ordeal, gentle hands on his searing skin as he took care of him. There’s none of that assertiveness now, no knowing looks or even snide smirks like the ones Thomas has grown so accustomed to seeing during cabinet meetings. Now there is only Alexander, still fast asleep and wound tightly to his side. Jefferson’s hand rests absentmindedly on his back, he watches his long fingers trace over the immigrants tan skin. It's a lovely color, warm and rough like island soil, but lacks the sunkissed glow it ought to have because Hamilton sequesters himself inside with his writings. Hides it under layers of coats and under the cover of candle lit nights spent hunched over his desk. His hands bare the evidence of this, splayed out over Jefferson stomach, just above the sheets. Palms smooth, knuckles knobby, and fingers petually bent to grip a quill, yet he knows now, first hand, that they are no less limber than those of a maiden with the sweetest needlework. The way his hair falls around his face, loose and downy is rather effeminate too. Soft and deep brown as it curls against his sallow skin.

Thomas knows he should be repulsed by him. By the dips and curves of his body under his hands and the feeling of their legs tangled together like this. This is Hamilton, a man with vile words and an even viler tongue to match. But it had not felt so vile when he kissed him. He can’t lie, and there’s nothing wrong in admitting the that Alexander is a handsome man. At least- there was no issue in it before last night. But now, Thomas Is forced consider that perhaps what frustrated him so badly during their debates might not have been solely the other man’s opinions. 

He swallows down the thought like bitter medicine, where it congeals unpleasantly in his stomach. This is wrong, what they’d done was wrong. It’s a sin and, if he weren’t damn already, Jefferson is surely going to hell now. He’ll never see his Martha again. His whole body goes rigid.

Alexander can apparently sense his physical distress, because Thomas feels him shift beneath his arms, little body twisting, muscles stretching just beneath the skin. Thomas shudders, marveling at the slide of skin on skin. He tries to ignore it, keeps his gaze plaster straight upwards, hoping, praying Alexander will fall back asleep. But instead he yawns, a sweet sound, and snuggles deeper into his chest. It’s with dread that he turns his eyes downwards. 

Hamilton is slowly blinking awake, eyes flutterings. He peered blearily up at Jefferson through his lashes and grins. Thomas is so wrecked that the sleepy little smile nearly makes him weep. The soft strech of his pink lips, his gaze gentle. His finger start to move, tapping against the firm plane of Jefferson’s stomach. 

“Morning” Hamilton says groggily. 

Jefferson’s heart hammers in his chest, threatening to split his rib cage. He can’t seem to make more than a whine of distress. 

Alexnader’s eyes twinkle mischievously, and he turns his head up to press his lips to Thomas’ neck. “You did so great last night.” he hums, the sound sending little sparks across his skin. “So good for me, mon Doudou.”

Thomas has no clue what that last word is. It sounds french, but no french he’s ever heard. He longs to ask what it means,  but his tongue is still adhered to the roof of his mouth. 

Hamilton nuzzles into him, rubbing his face along his heated skin, against the hair on his chest. “How are you feeling?” he probs gently. 

Jefferson winces like he was just prinked with a needle. He frame tenses as he tries to worm out of Alexander’s hold. “I need to leave.”

“What? Why?” the smaller man stares at him incredulously as Thomas shift into a seated position. 

“Because-” Thomas ruffles his hand roughly through his matted hair, drawing his legs up around him. “Because this is wrong. Us- like this it’s-”

_ Frightening, _ he thinks. Frightening to feel this way about another man. To feel this way about  _ Hamilton _ , of all people.

“It’s what?” Alexander asks firmly.

Jefferson holds the bedsheets tight around his waist. “It’s a sin. It goes against God.”  he says bluntly.

Hamilton chuckles, reclining back against the pillows with a hand tucked behind his head. “I’m not a particularly religious man, Mr Jefferson. I can’t say I put much faith in a being that would make me like this, only to punish me. Seems counter intuitive too makes something simply to hate. If god formed me in the womb as the bible would have me believe, why would he make it so I lust after men, if it’s a sin? Why not just limit my urges  to the softness of the female form? And even so, if the son and savior came for the sins of the whole world, why not mine? It makes no sense, so why put stock in it?”

Jefferson fists the bedsheets, staring hard at Hamilton as he lazies across the mattress, stretching out languidly.The blankets around his hips threatening to slip off. Heat pulses through him at the thought.

His words are blasphemous, but not wrong. Maybe there’s some merit to them. 

“Regadless of that, it still illigal” he snaps “Sodmoy is punishable by death.”

Hamilton raises a brow inquisitively. “Well, I wasn’t planning on telling anyone, where you?”

Thomas’ jaw tightens. “No.”

A playful grin pulls at Alexander’s lips. ‘Then I hardly see a problem with this argument.”

The way he says it makes it sound like he wants to do it again. Like he wouldn’t be opposed to doing it more. Thomas’ hart jumps in his chest at the thought, but he says nothing. He drops his gaze from Hamilton to his hands on the blankets. For a while, neither says anything.    
Jefferson feels the bed shift benight him. 

“Do I intimidate you, Thomas?” Alexander ask gentle. 

His eyes snap upward, trying to pin the immigrant down with his glare. “Of course not.” he say sharply.

The smaller man smiles slyly at him, dark eyes heavily lidded. “Really?” 

Alexander shifts, positioning himself on his knees, fingers splayed over the wrinkled bedsheets, and Thomas has to force himself not to look downward.The other man creeps forward at a teasing pace, his gaze glued to Jefferson, watching with an increasingly wicked grin as blush rises on his neck and his cheeks. And then he’s upon him, barely three inches of fabric separating them. Thomas swallows thickly.

“You’re sure you don’t find this a bit daunting?” Alexandre mutters. “You look as though you may pass out.”

He’s leaning ever so slightly into Jefferson personal space. The Virginian leans back on his arms, anything to put a little distance between himself and Hamilton strange gravity.

He shakes his head and tries to make his voice sound firm when he says. “No”.  It doesn’t work.

Yet Hamilton continues his taunts. He cocks an arrogant brow. “Then perphase its anticipation? Tell me Thomas-” His hand comes to rest on the top of Jefferson’s thigh, and the muscles spasm under the touch. “Does my touch not excite you anymore?”

Thomas bites down on his lower lip, because it does excite him, the feel of Hamilton’s hand on him sends rolling waves of heat though his body. 

Alexander inches closer still, skillful positioning himself between Jefferson parted legs, still obscured by the blankets. He leans in, breathing hotly over his skin and Jefferson shivers, fixing his gaze firmly on a spot over the immigrant's shoulder.

“And when I’m near you like this-” lips brush over his collarbone. “You feel nothing? Not the racing of your heart in your chest, or the thundering of you pulse in your ears.”

Once again Hamilton peers up at Thomas through his lashes, but now, all traces of innocence are gone. He smiles softly, Thomas feel his heart start to melt, every second spent so close to Alexander like this drives him a little closer to the precipice of his demise. The smaller man angles his head up slowly, other hand come to rest on Jefferson’s hip as he arches up, bringing his lips an inch from Jefferson’s quivering ones. And just like that Thomas gives himself over to Hamilton, leaning forward with every intention of kissing him, heart hammering at the memory of what the other man’s stubble feels like when it pulls against his own.

But at the last second Alexander pulls back just out of his reach, wearing a little open mouthed smirk with his tongue dancing at the inner edge of his lip. 

“That’s what I thought” he says, almost viciously, like he’s won something.

Thomas whines, heat welling up behind his eyes once more. He’s far too fragile for Alexander to play games like this. “Please” he rasped out.

The same as he had last night, drenched and bleeding and desperate for some sort of warmth. Last night he hadn't known what he was pleading for, and now he’s too embarrassed to put a name to it. But he knows what he wants now, knows what he needs. And that’s Alexander.

Gently Alexander takes one of Jefferson’s hands in his, bringing it up to his mouth so he can kiss the bandaged palm. Jefferson’s eyes flutter shut of their own accord it would seem. Then Hamilton is laying kisses all over him. Across his chest and neck and shoulders and Thomas’ breath is stalling his his throat.

Gradually Alexander’s mouth creeps lower. “You’re so tense” he says, soothing his hands over Jefferson’s chest until he starts to sink into the mattress. “Do you want me to stop?”

Thomas chews at his lower lip, letting his head fall back so that it practically hangs of the bed. 

Oh Martha, forgive him for what he’s about to do.

“No” he mutters.

He feels the curl of Alexander’s grin against his hipbone and it sends shivers up his spine. So he threads his fingers into that long, downy hair and lets Hamilton do what he must. 


End file.
